Chapter Thirty-One Wanda lay unconscious in the hospital bed, the room filled with the steady beeping of the heart monitor and the quiet hum of the machines keeping her stabilized. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead cast a pale glow across her face, highlighting her closed eyes and the faint bruises on her neck where Michael's hands had been. Michael sat in a chair beside her, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. His eyes were fixed on her face, a mixture of anger and frustration playing across his features. He had expected to feel relieved seeing her alive and breathing, but instead, a seething bitterness welled up inside him. The memory of their fight replayed in his mind, and instead of feeling guilt, he felt a surge of resentment. “Why do you make everything so difficult, Wanda?” he muttered under his breath, his fingers gripping the edge of the chair so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “Why can’t you just do as you’re told
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